Sinister: Well done Brian

[Robin Stout]

Hello sinisters

I have to tell you about the man who almost killed me yesterday. His arms 
bulged with tattoos. The left arm said Belle and the right one Sebastian. If 
only. He lips said "I'm going to get you, you fucker." The customers were 
quite surprised. The man was shaking his fists over the counter because he 
said I'd "Called him a thief", which wasn't true at all, and told me to come 
outside and settle it. It took Gay Jon to scare him off; I was hopeless. Jon 
just told him to stop being so silly and gave him a look and the man went 
away. "You bastard", I shouted, but I don't think he heard. It was half an 
hour later, anyway.

Kinky Ken said

>Philip Boucher did a lot of maths, which was quite funny, but unfortunately
>one of the lines was mathematically incorrect.. I pick up on these things,
>being a maths teacher and all.

Mmm, yes. a square-root squared leaves whatever was inside the square root. 
So the answer becomes women = all evil. Which is, of course, completely 
untrue. Watch out Philip, Mr Chu will be after you with his cane.


I'm being haunted by the ghost of Pancake, the goldfish. Strange sounds have 
been coming from the wheelie bin, like a bubbling fish-voice muffled by 
teabags and carrot tops. Once I thought it said "You killled meee!" - a 
damning accusation -  but on second thoughts it sounded more like "I'm 
gilled, meee" - a harmless fact. The fish must be thinking of the meaning of 
its fishy life.
These noises, they could be a ghost, or maybe a mouse, but I suspect its 
only my guilty imagination. Poor Pancake.


The bugs nibbled on Laura Llew

>However, I am comforted by the fact that I now have an instant game of 
>connect the dots to entertain me wherever I am. Perhaps I will get lucky 
>and one of them will form the silhouette of Elvis and I can be featured in 
>the next Enquirer.

Or if you're unlucky they could form a sausage and you'd end up in Sausage 
Weekly. There's hundreds of people with birthmarks in the shape of Jesus, 
you know, or the Virgin Mary, or Elvis. But we never get to hear about those 
poor souls with foot fungus in the shape of Wogan, or a bum rash that's the 
image of David Copperfield. They must be out there somewhere. The poor 
afflicted souls.

Right, I'm off to have a picnic in my back garden. Is anyone coming?

Robin x

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